Along the path through the shrubbery the crew of the battleplane hurried. At the inner gate the first sight that met their eyes was the body of one of the bull-terriers half buried in the snow. The other animal was discovered dead in the bushes, whither it had crawled before expiring. Both animals had been poisoned.
In the little lodge was the unconscious form of the aged porter. Evidently he had put up a stiff fight, for there was blood upon the floor, and a revolver with two chambers discharged was still grasped in his right hand.
Blake bent over his devoted servant.
"He's alive," he announced. "I can find no trace of an injury. He must have been tackled by two men. He's been chloroformed."
The inventor's first task was to restore the unconscious man. His anxiety on the porter's behalf seemed to banish all other thoughts from his mind. The loss of the almost invaluable plans were as naught compared with the state of his faithful retainer.
"Shall I go for a doctor?" asked Athol.
Blake shook his head.
"I'm used to a land where doctors are few and far between," he replied. "That makes every man there more or less of a medico. You might start that fire again, Athol, and get a kettle on."
Having waited until the patient had recovered consciousness, Desmond Blake and Dick left the lodge, Athol having volunteered to remain with the victim of the outrage.
Letting himself in by means of a sidedoor the inventor soon found that the house had not been an object of the spies' investigations. The old butler was still asleep, ignorant of the attempt upon his brother the porter.